


agony as love

by Coshledak



Category: His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman, 陈情令 | The Untamed (TV), 魔道祖师 - 墨香铜臭 | Módào Zǔshī - Mòxiāng Tóngxiù
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Canon Era, Daemon Feels, Daemon Touching, Daemons, Implied Mèng Yáo | Jīn Guāngyáo/Niè Míngjué, M/M, Mutual Pining, Same-Sex Daemons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:47:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25051153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coshledak/pseuds/Coshledak
Summary: XiYao Month 2020 Prompt 3: Forbidden Feelings"His fingers ache to touch his hands, to ease the tension, but he stays still.Always, he stays still. Stagnant."His Dark Materials/Daemons!AU
Relationships: Lán Huàn | Lán Xīchén/Mèng Yáo | Jīn Guāngyáo
Comments: 30
Kudos: 75
Collections: XiYao Month 01-31.07.2020





	agony as love

**Author's Note:**

> My first fic for this pairing/fandom that isn't in my own AU! Amazing!
> 
> For those of you who are unfamiliar with His Dark Materials or the concept of daemons, I'll give a little explanation so you aren't totally lost!
> 
> Stripping it down to its barest essence, daemons are manifestations of human souls that live outside of their bodies in the form of animals. So basically if your soul lived outside of you as a sentient animal who could speak to you and felt the same emotions and thoughts that you had, that would be your daemon. 
> 
> Who doesn't love an AU where everyone's souls are animals that can talk to them? :)
> 
> This fic is canon only in the sense that it's also assumed to be in a similar setting to the regular canon, but you'll immediately notice that no canon related plot devices are functioning together. Just roll with it. XD
> 
> \-------

He thinks that, perhaps, his daemon is his destiny. The thought doesn’t occur to him very often, but it is present. It is something he has considered before, deeply, in meditation or when his responsibilities as Sect Leader don’t immediately demand all of his attention. Those latter times are few and far between, but the thought persists. It becomes louder in moments like this, when he’s required to be somewhere away from the spacious forests and mountains of his home.

Shuoyue is not an easy daemon to travel with, and there are few places that can comfortably house him. This means that, for as long as he can remember, he has gotten somewhat used to the painful pull of having his daemon just a little bit further away from him than is comfortable. He’s built up something of an immunity to it and can be further from Shuoyue than most people can be from the other halves of themselves.

Inevitably, though, he needs to slip away from any festivity or meeting that he may be attending to lessen the burden in his chest. Today’s conference is no different. Thankfully, the breaks are somewhat built into the structure of these conferences now, especially when the topics are weighty. 

Today’s meeting has run particularly late, however. It ends before nine, his usual curfew, but the sun has set before he heads out. The ache in his chest is playing dangerously with becoming unbearable. The fortunate thing is that Shuoyue feels it, too, and the sound of hooves on stone isn’t far when he makes it out of the largest of the Unclean Realm’s pavilions and to the centralized training grounds.

The powerful form of his stag daemon appears, retaining some of his elegance despite the frantic look in his eye. Shuoyue is massive, white as moonlight, with branching antlers that swoop and curve into majestic, dangerous points. 

When they were younger, when Lan Xichen was smaller, he would throw his arms around his thick neck and bury his face in the densest parts of his mane until the hurt faded. As an adult, he reaches out and Shuoyue presses his face against his hand, butting into his palm and stepping closer and closer in something that resembles desperation.

Lan Xichen’s other hand comes up, resting on Shuoyue’s neck. He brushes his fingers through his white fur and lets out a breath through the circle of his lips. 

“Are you alright?” Shuoyue asks, his voice deep but still trembling faintly. “I’m here now.”

Lan Xichen smiles a little, having not even realized that his hands were shaking until now. “It’s nothing I’m not used to.”

“If being used to it mattered,” Shuoyue replies, a little bitterly. “Then it wouldn’t hurt at all.”

Lan Xichen chuckles, but it feels strangely light. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Xiongzhang.” The sound of his brother’s voice isn’t terribly surprising, but he turns to assuage him, still wearing the same smile.

“I’m fine, Wangji,” he soothes, but doesn’t take either one of his hands off of his daemon. “I just didn’t think that we would get out so late.”

Lan Wangji looks like he wants to say something, but he nods instead. Bichen pokes his head out of the front of his robes, nose twitching excitedly and ears raised. But, once he sees that everything is okay, he settles with his chin nestled on the front fold.

“We shouldn’t have,” Nie Mingjue says, approaching from behind his brother now. Baxia stalks along beside him, a black wolf, her steely silver eyes sharp in the moonlight. The heat of Nie Mingjue’s voice is reflected in her bristling fur.

She, unlike her owner who stops in the circle of the brother’s company, continues forward to Shuoyue. She raises her nose to him, sniffing, until Shuoyue lowers his head to huff breath through his nose against her back. He moves his head so she can lick at his forelock affectionately, satisfied with the state of him and, therefore, the state of Lan Xichen.

But as this ritual takes place, Nie Mingjue continues talking, visibly agitated.

“Sect Leader Jin certainly likes hearing himself talk, even when he’s in another man’s domain,” he says. 

Lan Xichen has taken to stroking Shuoyue’s neck, not getting in the way of Baxia’s attention to him. But he speaks softly, in a way meant to placate. “He has a lot to say about these watch towers. We are asking a great deal of them in Lanling to help fund such a venture.”

“It is precisely _because_ they can afford it that we ask,” Nie Mingjue replies, straightening a little. “Not that we even should be asking, mind you. Something like this should have been his idea with all of his copious wealth.”

Lan Xichen doesn’t mean to betray his exhaustion, but he knows he does. He must do it obviously, too, because Baxia gives an irritated flick of her tail and begins to retreat back to her counterpart.

“Xichen is tired,” she scolds. “Let’s let him rest. The talks will continue tomorrow, and our opinions will be heard.”

Nie Mingjue rests his hand on the scruff of her neck as she returns to his side. She is right, and Lan Xichen knows that Nie Mingjue hears her reason. He just doesn’t like it from her any more than he likes it from anyone else.

The brothers part ways with Nie Mingjue then and retreat back to their own quarters. When they arrive, he tells Lan Wangji to go ahead inside. Though he doesn’t ask, he offers an explanation of wanting to walk around with Shuoyue for a while longer. Though his daemon can be closer to him in their pavilion than he can be in the conference hall, there is still some distance. Not a strain, but something that makes his sleep less sound than it could be.

Unfortunately, the best he can do to mitigate that pain is to spend a little longer with Shuoyue before going to sleep.

They walk around the Unclean Realm, changing paths when they hear voices chattering up ahead. Plenty of cultivators will probably be staying up into the night, drinking and talking about the meeting or about other things. 

Lan Xichen purposefully avoids those parts of these gatherings. For one, he doesn’t drink. For two, it never seems right to talk about major developments outside of a forum where all voices can be heard.

“It seems Sect Leader Nie isn’t the only one with grievances,” Shuoyue says, responding to a thought that Lan Xichen didn’t need to speak aloud.

He shakes his head. “No, but I imagine their grievances are the same as their masters’.”

Shuoyue snorts. “Since when did cultivation society become so against protecting common people? Certainly it hasn’t always been about clout and recognition.”

Shuoyue, like many daemons, has a way of voicing the less elegant things buried in Lan Xichen’s heart. Even if the words strike a chord within him, it’s still jarring to hear them. Lan Xichen pulls them to a stop, frowning.

“I’m sure that’s not what it is,” he replies. “There can be other reasons for hesitation on building the watch towers. We’ll hear them tomorrow.”

 _But will you only hear them, or will you listen to them?_ Shuoyue doesn’t say it, but there’s a feeling that vibrates on the line that connects them. It carries that sentiment in its hum, and Lan Xichen keeps walking so that he can ignore it.

They keep away from the sleeping quarters, wandering further towards the edges of the Unclean Realm’s walls. Lanterns are still lit, illuminating the pathways, making it easy to see, but on the outer edges, the moonlight helps as well. Shuoyue’s fur seems to refract it, amplifying it through each strand so the areas where it hits him seem illuminated.

Up ahead, he hears quiet speaking followed by the sliding of a door. Lan Xichen watches as a golden fox hops off the surrounding walkway and onto the stone path, winding in a circle before looking back at the person following her.

The faint silver-gray embellishments on Meng Yao’s robes have a way of catching the moonlight, too, faintly blanching the color and leaving the more muted brown between them untouched. 

From this angle, he can see the decorative moth wings that stand up from behind one of his ears, unmoving. The moonlight runs over his soft facial features, casting every surface in gentle curves. If there’s any part of his face that looks angular or harsh, then the moon cannot find it as she shines on him. Neither can Lan Xichen, as he looks at him.

This is not the first time he has admired the face of Nie Mingjue’s assistant and advisor.

Of course, when he turns towards Lan Xichen, those sorts of details are lost to the shadow casted on his front. He only walks a few steps before noticing that he isn’t alone, that someone is, quite frankly, standing there staring at him. 

Lan Xichen flatters himself to think that Meng Yao’s eyes—his whole face—brightens up for a moment. Just a moment of powerful radiance, his cheeks dimpling with a smile, before he hurries forward. Once Meng Yao is in front of him, he bows.

“Zewu-jun,” he begins, but Lan Xichen catches the folds of his arms. 

These touches always feel too light for the ache in his chest, but he makes do. After all, he can make do when Shuoyue is far, can’t he? This ache is much the same.

Meng Yao straightens up again, dropping his arms back to his sides. “You’re out late. Is everything alright?”

Lan Xichen nods. “Yes. I was just spending a little extra time with Shuoyue.”

“To recover from the meeting,” Meng Yao says, and it is not a question. Lan Xichen smiles, certain that it betrays his exhaustion, and nods.

The golden fox weaves her way between Shuoyue’s legs, butting her body up against them affectionately.

He raises his eyes to the building Meng Yao had just hurried out and away from. “Is everything alright with Sect Leader Nie?”

“Of course,” Meng Yao answers. “It’s nothing that Zewu-jun need trouble himself over.”

Lan Xichen is only slightly less than convinced, but it’s enough. Shuoyue gives a slight huff through his nose, one of disbelief. Xiaomimi, the fox, imitates it back to him.

Meng Yao smiles a little, and it’s one that’s caught between seeming slightly forced and seeming genuine. “He is frustrated by Sect Leader Jin’s reluctance to fund the watchtowers. Though I have done the calculations many times, and the lives they would save is beyond dispute, many of the other sects hesitate. He finds it ignoble.” 

“And what do you think?”

The faint tension that had come over Meng Yao gives a shudder and seems to fall away, even if Meng Yao himself doesn’t move. Lan Xichen first noticed it further back than he can remember. Maybe he had noticed it the first time they met, this tendency of Meng Yao’s to liven up when asked for something as simple as his opinion. If he hadn’t been genuinely curious, which he is, then he would ask his opinion just to see such a delightful shift overtake him.

“Would you like to walk with me, Zewu-jun?” He asks, though Lan Xichen is sure that he already knows the answer.

They continue to stick to the outer edges of the Unclean Realm, going back along the spaces between the walls and the interior pavilions. In order to avoid going by Nie Mingjue’s bedchambers, they go back the way that Lan Xichen came from. Meng Yao waits until they’re at least three pavilions away before he speaks up.

“I think that the watchtowers are more necessary than night-hunts,” Meng Yao explains. 

Xiaomimi has joined him at his heel, walking along contently. Sometimes she looks down the pathways between pavilions or pauses to twitch her ears up at a sound. Shuoyue, who has had to fall behind now so that Meng Yao and Lan Xichen can walk side by side, occasionally nudges her back into moving when she blocks his path for too long.

Lan Xichen looks at him as they walk, just for a moment, his eyebrows raised faintly in surprise. He’s standing on the side that allows him to see the intricate moth wings still firmly set behind Meng Yao’s ear. “That is a bold claim.”

“It shouldn’t be,” Meng Yao says, quickly, but not harshly. “Night-hunting is beneficial, but most of it is ego, is it not? Competitions between sects and cultivators for boasting rights. They save lives, but only if it benefits them in some way.”

It had taken them some time to get to this point, the point where Meng Yao would speak so freely. Still, Lan Xichen finds himself captivated by him, by the way he expresses his thoughts more clearly and eloquently than anyone in their conferences seems to. Although he wants to believe that their concerns have merits, they often come off as petty snipes. Meng Yao’s never do, even as he admonishes such an old and established tradition within cultivation society.

“The watchtowers would still provide some benefit,” Lan Xichen presses, but only so Meng Yao will speak more. “The plan is for the Jin Sect to pay for them. Does that not count as a ‘benefit’?”

Meng Yao smiles, but it’s a devious and bitter thing. “Well, we can’t expect the cultivation world to suddenly become altruistic, can we? At least this way they’re paid for their services, and the services are made plain by the information gathered in the watch towers.”

It’s then that something clicks into place.

“The watchtowers…they were your idea?”

“Yes.” Meng Yao says the words quietly, little more than a breath, but they carry with them some deep satisfaction. As if this were all a guessing game and someone had finally guessed at a correct answer he had been holding onto. 

Lan Xichen stands, yet again, in awe of Meng Yao’s brilliant mind. Of course this plan is exactly the sort of thing that no Sect Leader would think of, not on their own. Which perhaps is why so many of them resist it now. Even with all of the advantages presented, even with all of the logic before them, the notion of changing anything about their way of life is met with staunch skepticism.

Meng Yao is not only beautiful, but he is also brilliant. This is not news to Lan Xichen and, yet, every time the thought comes awash on the shores of his mind he is left breathless.

But this time, the thought is followed by something cool. 

“Did Nie Mingjue not want you to speak on it yourself?” he asks, his stomach already tight in anticipation of the answer.

“He did,” Meng Yao replies. “We were just discussing that. He…” Meng Yao lets out a breath, all of his previous cunning and cleverness seeming to evaporate from him. “He doesn’t understand.”

“Doesn’t understand what?”

Meng Yao laughs, but it’s a helpless sound. “Anything, I suppose.” He frowns. “He thinks that people will listen to me simply because he finds my idea sensible and smart.”

“But it is sensible and smart,” Lan Xichen insists.

“Nothing of value, sensible or otherwise, comes from someone like me. Not to them.”

He realizes, as Meng Yao reaches a hand up towards his ear, that he has made the same mistake that Nie Mingjue likely has: this is not about Meng Yao’s ego. It is not about insecurity in his ideas or the belief that this strategies are lacking. It is about everything—about everyone— _outside_ of that.

Meng Yao slides his finger, small and delicate, along the back shell of his ear. For the first time, the moth wings, painted in muted monochromes save for the symmetrical cuts of red, twitch and shudder. A body of white and red fuzz emerges, antennae long and plush shift and sway with their shared agitation out in the open. 

Slowly, with Hensheng balanced on the fine curve of his finger, Meng Yao brings his daemon in close to his face. He doesn’t even stop walking, and Lan Xichen watches as Hensheng’s front legs and antennae find the bridge of Meng Yao’s nose. He has seen them do this only rarely, but every time he does he finds himself lost on his feelings of it. 

How many times he had buried his fingers and face against Shuoyue’s fur when he felt despair? How many times had he hugged his neck? Or felt Shuoyue’s weighty head on his lap, antlers pressing into his flesh in a way that never quite hurt but always felt real? Even tonight he had watched as Lan Wangji stroked the top of Bichen’s head, between his ears, with familiar and absent fingers. He had watched Nie Mingjue’s hand rest on the thick black coat of Baxia’s neck.

But this? The points of contact between Meng Yao and Hensheng are so small that he cannot imagine feeling them himself. He cannot imagine taking any comfort, any satisfaction, from them. He cannot imagine feeling close to his daemon the way that Meng Yao must—surely must—feel with Hensheng if he were so small. So brittle. So vulnerable.

Every time, he feels a silly little ache inside. He feels the desire to fill gaps and hold him, to take Meng Yao into his arms as if Hensheng’s small body were not enough. It’s a traitorous thought, he knows. There is no one who’s daemon is not enough to comfort them. They are halves of each other, and there is always comfort in becoming whole.

And still the fantasy persists.

“Where you came from doesn’t determine your worth,” Lan Xichen says, because he feels that he needs to say something. These moments of quiet always seem like they demand words, even if he never has words to give.

The ones that follow rise from that unbearable and tight feeling in his stomach: “Nie Mingjue certainly sees your worth.”

Lan Xichen is closer to Nie Mingjue than he is any other Sect Leader. This is not a recent development but, rather, one that has persisted for a great many years. It spans nearly as long as they’ve known each other, though their temperaments vary greatly. They had not always gotten along well, though they have never gotten along poorly. Now, with time, he has gotten very good at understanding Nie Mingjue, both in his strengths and his faults.

Which is precisely why he knows how Nie Mingjue feels about Meng Yao.

Which is precisely why he needs to stop having these fantasies. Soon. Now. Before they tear him apart. Before they tear everything apart.

Nie Mingjue is not so guarded about his feelings. He doesn’t wear them as plainly as the Jiang Sect does, but he wears them. He wears them in ways that Lan Xichen knows how to read more than just the obvious irritation and anger. Those are just the ones that Nie Mingjue keeps closest to the surface. 

His deference to Meng Yao’s strategies and thoughts speaks volumes. The way that he won’t let anyone speak ill of him, the protectiveness that rises in him. Lan Xichen has seen every indication that Nie Mingjue’s fondness reaches beyond admiration of his assistant’s tactical prowess. He sees strength in him, but Lan Xichen knows that only amplifies the beauty that Nie Mingjue must see. Beauty that Lan Xichen has always seen.

But what claim does that give him? None. Simply noticing his merits first, the intricate play of Meng Yao’s cleverness with the softness of his face, does not entitle him to that which Nie Mingjue wants. 

And yet, as Meng Yao blinks slowly and turns his face, his beautiful dark eyes to him, Lan Xichen’s whole being trembles. Though Meng Yao’s eyes are deep and unwavering, something plays at the edge of his intent gaze. Something warm that makes all of Lan Xichen’s lines feel smooth.

“And what,” he begins, quietly. “Does Zewu-jun think of A-Yao’s worth?”

Meng Yao’s eyes drop and Lan Xichen’s follow, as if chasing him down a waterfall. Hensheng walks with practiced grace along Meng Yao’s hand as he turns it so the palm is up. 

“I think,” Lan Xichen replies, unable to tear his eyes away. “That A-Yao is the most valuable mind I know.”

Meng Yao smiles like the sun emerging from behind the clouds, tentative at first but brightening and banishing the cool moonlight. Lan Xichen is bathed in his warmth.

“Thank you, A-Huan.”

Hensheng flutters up from the landing ground of Meng Yao’s hand, his wings beating in quick strokes, to land on the flat front of Shuoyue’s face. The stag doesn’t blink, doesn’t flinch or fuss, just closes his eyes. Some peace comes over him, something different from even the mundane content he had felt walking alongside them. Lan Xichen feels it, that piece clicking into place so that only two more are missing.

Only two more pieces, one last connection, for everything to fall into place. For that persistent fantasy of taking Meng Yao in his arms and filling any remaining gaps in him simply by physical touch alone. 

And he flatters himself to think that Meng Yao looks at him like he wants it, like he’s waiting for it. Meng Yao looks at him like it is the natural course of action, and all he has to do is step forward and take it. He tells himself that’s what he sees in his eyes, what it means to feel the ghost of Hensheng’s wings on his own face, the way they flutter against Shuoyue’s. It means that this is not an isolated incident, detached from all the other quiet, desperate moments they’ve had together. Moments balanced on the cusp of completion but falling apart.

Just as this one falls apart.

“I should get back,” Lan Xichen says. His voice feels weak, like it doesn’t want to carry the burden of his own personal betrayal.

Lan Xichen wishes fiercely that he wasn't always the one holding the hammer. He wishes he wasn’t the executioner of his own happiness.

He isn’t sure when Meng Yao got so close to him, but he doesn’t notice it until he’s stepping back. He didn’t even fully notice when they’d stopped walking. Of course, it would be in his nature to notice such things only as they’re laid low. Only as they’re lost.

Meng Yao nods. “Of course. It is late for you and Shuoyue.”

He watches as Meng Yao turns to his daemon, offering his hand. Hensheng flutters to it, and, where Lan Xichen can contain himself to silence, Shuoyue, the purest essence of his soul, cannot. He makes a slight sound, something that might be pain or distress, but hides itself in an unquestionable ambiguity.

Hensheng lans on Meng Yao’s hand, allowing himself to be brought up to the space behind his ear. His daemon being hidden again is what brings the moment full circle; it’s what closes the door on that fleeting intimacy between them. Lan Xichen tells himself that it’s easier to breathe, the lines clear in the sand now, but it is only easy in the way walls offer security. It is only easy in the way it blocks off the wonder of potential, of possibility, of _everything._

Sensing it, Xiaomimi hurries to Meng Yao’s side as he bows. Lan Xichen reaches to catch him, but he stays bowed. 

“Good night, Zewu-jun,” he says, his voice no longer free and candid. 

_Stay with me._ The words burn his tongue, but not half as much as they burn his mind. Shuoyue shifts impatiently, anxiously. If he doesn’t bid him goodnight, then his daemon will betray it all. But the thought persists in them both, aches in them both. _Stay with me._

“Good night, A-Yao.”

There is a brief moment of hesitation, as if Meng Yao had…no. Surely he’s imagining it. Surely there’s no way that Meng Yao had expected him to say something else. Anything else.

He backs away without unclasping his hands. Not until he turns to go does Meng Yao straighten again, his hands dropping to his sides. Lan Xichen sees his fingers curl into his palms a little as he rounds a corner at the end of the row of pavilions. His fingers ache to touch his hands, to ease the tension, but he stays still.

Always, he stays still. Stagnant.

“Why do you do this to us?” Shuoyue asks, his voice as weak and helpless as Lan Xichen feels. As if his insides were scraped clean, left raw.

“Nie Mingjue has great affection for him,” Lan Xichen replies.

“And what is this agony, A-Huan, if not love?”

Lan Xichen doesn’t answer, but, then, he doesn’t need to. They both already know—already feel—any answer that he could give.


End file.
